


killing time

by andreaphobia



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, boy fights boy, boy fugs boy, boy meets boy, fight then fuck, quintessentially 8018, staving off boredom with sexual tension, violence as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: Yamamoto never learns.[2011-01-16]
Relationships: Hibari Kyouya/Yamamoto Takeshi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	killing time

**Author's Note:**

> Originally archived on LJ; edited some since the first time, and given a proper ending to boot.

Hibari knew it was going to be a boring day.

Actually, as of late, nearly every day was boring. The corridors were crammed full of idiot herbivores, crowding together, discussing the inconsequential things in their inconsequential lives. Rule breakers, delinquents, and other miscreants... they were everywhere, but none of them were worth biting to death.

He longed for a fight—a real one, an all-out clash that would make his blood sing—but there was none to be had. The tedium of it all bore down on him, oppressive, wearing upon his very soul.

The morning was spent angrily stalking the hallways, jacket flapping behind him like a warning. Those with any sense at all stayed far away, and those without any soon learned their lesson. He had just come from beating up some of the rabble loitering around outside the school gates, but even that had failed to cure his boredom.

And then, to top it off, he was woken from his afternoon nap by one Yamamoto Takeshi, who had snuck into the reception room to lean over him while he slept. Stealthily, to be sure—but not enough by half.

“Oops,” was all Yamamoto had time to say before a tonfa smashed into his face. He lifted off the floor for a moment with the force of it, almost comically, then sank back to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, clutching his nose. Hibari took a step back, tonfas in hand, to examine his work. Clearly, the blow had taken Yamamoto by surprise. Yamamoto Takeshi was fast, but you needed more than speed to take on Hibari.

At the moment he was gingerly feeling around inside his mouth with a finger, as though expecting a tooth to have come loose. Once satisfied that a trip to the dentist would not be necessary, he rolled himself onto his back to stare impudently up at Hibari from the floor. He had to know how much the sight of him lolling about on the reception room carpet like a dog irritated Hibari, _had_ to, or why else would he do it?

“Hey, Hibari.” The usual insolent grin was back on his face; it made Hibari's knuckles itch. “Do you know what a sociopath is?”

Hibari's lip curled. “Better than being a herbivore.”

Yamamoto barked out a laugh. It sounded a little wet, possibly on account of the blood currently trickling from his nose. “You _would_ say that, wouldn't you?”

Hibari gave him an impassive glance as he began painstakingly raising himself up on all fours, then drew one foot back, delivering a swift kick to the ribs. Coughing a little, Yamamoto collapsed again, clutching at his side.

“Shit, Hibari...” he choked out, eyes watering but laughing still, in his uniquely infuriating way. “Don't kick a man when he's down.”

“Don't come near me when I'm sleeping.”

At that, Yamamoto raised his head just enough to deliver his best shit-eating grin. Hibari noticed there was blood on his teeth.

“So I can come near you when you're awake?”

Another kick shut him up for good. Scowling deeply, Hibari turned on his heel and stalked out without a second look.

*

It was only later that it occurred to Hibari to wonder what Yamamoto had been doing there in the first place.

So many possibilities... none of which appealed to him in the slightest. For instance, perhaps it was some form of intrigue that had led Yamamoto Takeshi to invade his domain. But—no, surely not. While in the privacy of his mind he might acknowledge that Yamamoto Takeshi was not, in fact, full herbivore, it was hard to imagine what kind of deeper plot could lie behind purposely getting oneself bitten to death.

Most likely, it was just some fool notion about trying to integrate Hibari into Sawada Tsunayoshi’s “family” unit. He should have known better, Hibari thought; it was inconceivable that Hibari would lower himself to become part of a herd.

He pondered all of this later that afternoon while seated at his desk, alone in the darkened reception room. From a distance, the whistles and shouts of the track team training reached his ears. On a whim, he stood up, and turned towards the window, which was the room’s only source of light. A brief gust of air stirred the curtains.

As his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, the grounds of his beloved school came into focus. He spotted the baseball team warming up, stretching and pitching balls to each other further down the field.

Yamamoto Takeshi must have been there, too, he supposed.

(Not that he gave a flying fuck.)

He turned his back to the window, and sat back down. It was no matter. He had secured his solitude once more, and Yamamoto wouldn’t be back in a hurry—at least, not after that last beating.

A yawn seized him, then, making his eyes water. He slumped forward over his desk, laying his cheek upon the flat of his outstretched arm, fingertips curled over the far edge, feeling his soul congeal with boredom. Nothing interested him... and it was too much to hope that tomorrow would be any different.

*

The next day, while on patrol, he passed the wonder trio in the corridor. A few stray snippets of conversation reached his ears, over the general hubbub of herbivores.

“...look like shit. Got into a fight or somethin’?”

“Took a baseball to the face.” Hibari’s eyes narrowed, slightly. Apparently Yamamoto Takeshi could lie, when he so chose.

“That sounds rough! Are you okay?” Sawada Tsunayoshi, making typical herbivorous noises. He was nothing if not dependable in that respect.

“Baseball, my ass. You could at least feed us a good lie—”

“Oh—Hibari!” Yamamoto had caught sight of him; the way he perked up grated on Hibari’s nerves. “How’s it going?”

His voice faltered momentarily as Hibari stalked past him without a second look. But it only took him a moment to recover; brushing off Gokudera’s jeers, he quickly fell into step beside Hibari, strolling along casually as though he had any right to be there.

(If he was aware of the fact that he was pushing his luck, he showed no signs of it.)

“Hey, Hibari, slow down—it’s hard to talk if you’re walking so fast!”

“Stop following me or I’ll break your legs.”

Yamamoto grinned. “Are you sure? That’ll make it harder for me to visit you.”

“Good.”

“Don’t say that. I’ll come and find you later, okay?”

“Do it and die.”

At this, Yamamoto only laughed, and the next time Hibari rounded a corner, he found that he was no longer being followed.

*

True to his word, upon Hibari’s return to the reception room at the end of the day, he found Yamamoto seated on the edge of his desk, bold as brass. Yamamoto caught his eye, and grinned.

“Hey. Missed me?”

“Get out.”

Yamamoto only stretched, the picture of indifference, and then tucked his hands behind his neck, one after the other.

“C’mon... don’t be like that. I just wanna talk, okay?”

He had—Hibari noticed, with no small amount of satisfaction—a piece of sticking plaster over the bridge of his nose. And yet, it still hadn’t been enough to keep the bloody fool away. His fingertips began to itch, as though longing to wrap themselves around the soft flesh of a throat.

While he was weighing himself against the desire to destroy something, Yamamoto continued to watch him steadily. His laughter wasn’t audible, but Hibari could see it dancing in his eyes.

“I, uh... wanted to ask you something.”

Hibari’s mouth twisted unhappily.

“What.”

Yamamoto hopped down from the desk. His expression—insofar as he was capable of producing such a look—had turned sly. “I was wondering... Have you ever kissed a girl?”

“Ask me another stupid question and I’ll bite you to death,” said Hibari, with a cruel smile that added _And I’ll enjoy every last second of it._

“Scary!” Yamamoto chuckled. It was obvious he wasn’t scared in the least. Hibari wondered, in passing, if he was a masochist. “I’ll make sure to only ask intelligent questions, then!”

He leaned back, and Hibari noticed, with distaste, that his shirt was untucked. Hibari folded his arms over his chest, and scowled again.

“Go away.”

“Aww, so cold, Hibari. You should be careful—one day I might take you seriously!”

“So do it already.”

“Well.” At that, Yamamoto only smiled. He took a step forward; Hibari, eyes narrowed, stared him down, held his ground. “ _I_ have. Kissed a girl, I mean.”

“Good for you.”

“Is it?” Yamamoto chuckled. “I mean, it was okay, I guess. She was pretty and everything—”

Hibari found that his patience was beginning to wear thin, and snapped, a little louder than he’d intended, “So go find another one. I’m sure there are plenty like that around here.”

Yamamoto held up his hands, placating. “Hold on, hold on! Just let me finish.” When he smiled next, all the muscles in Hibari’s arm twitched instinctively. “Y’see...” He cleared his throat and took another step forward, before stopping quickly at the look on Hibari’s face. “While I was doing it... _you_ kept popping into my head. Like, _man, I wonder what Hibari tastes like_ , or _I wonder what kinda face Hibari would be making, if it was him_. Stuff like that.” His eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Weird, right? And now it’s like, I can’t stop thinking about it. So maybe if I kissed you for _real_...”

The confession, if it could even be called that, caught Hibari off-guard, but he did nothing more than blink—once, and slowly. He had to admit, that hadn’t even been on the list of possible reasons why Yamamoto Takeshi would be bothering him like this, which was quite the oversight.

Perhaps his assessment of that herd of losers had been more flawed than he’d first supposed. In the meantime, Yamamoto was still watching him calmly, awaiting his response. Smirking, Hibari narrowed his eyes.

“...I’ve always wanted to kill you. One doesn’t always get what one wants.”

“Always?” That laugh again, so careless, so _unafraid_ —it raised Hibari’s hackles, made him long for the swift and sudden stop of a fist meeting flesh. But he restrained himself, refusing to rise to the provocation. “It’s good to know you hold me so close to your heart.”

“Are you almost done? I’m bored of this.”

“I wonder,” said Yamamoto, stroking his chin between thumb and forefinger. There was a glint in his eye that Hibari did not appreciate. “Why don’t you let me help you pass the time, then?”

“And how do you propose to do that,” Hibari began to say, though he immediately regretted it. Yamamoto started towards him; Hibari responded by seizing him by the collar and slamming him down into the desk, one fist raised in clear threat. Once again, apropos of nothing, he noticed the top button on Yamamoto’s shirt was undone, and bared his teeth in a silent snarl. (Sloppy uniforms were just one of the many things that incited him to violence.)

Yamamoto was winded for a moment when his back hit the desk, but recovered swiftly. “No need to be so rough, Hibari! What if someone gets hurt?”

Hibari ignored him, tightening his grip on Yamamoto’s collar, knuckles turning white. Attempting to find a better position from which to beat Yamamoto into a bloody pulp, he slid one leg up onto the desk, but stopped short when he felt something hard pressing into his thigh. Beneath him, Yamamoto flinched, lashes fluttering, and Hibari’s fury was tempered only by shock at his sheer audacity.

“...Are you actually getting turned on by this?”

“No, not really...” Yamamoto beamed at him. “Just from your cute face!”

This time, he was ready, and Hibari’s fist dented the wood of the desk where his head had rested just moments before. “Okay, okay—calm down, Hibari! We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just kissing, okay—”

With the butt of his free hand, Hibari struck him directly in the solar plexus, doubling him up.

“Persistent little herbivore, aren’t you...” he hissed between his teeth, as Yamamoto coughed, catching his breath. His head was starting to hurt. Something was happening that he didn’t understand, and he _hated_ things he didn’t understand. After all, the world that Hibari lived in was simple, reducible to a couple of statements of fact—the strong fought the weak and won, herbivores and crowds were bad, and other things of that sort. There was nothing in his toolkit that equipped him to deal with... whatever it was that had led them here, Yamamoto’s collar in one fist, laughter in his eyes, and that infuriating smile that Hibari wanted to wipe off his face once and for all.

Somehow, in-between all the wheezing, Yamamoto still found the breath to chuckle. “What... have you... got... to lose...?”

That gave Hibari pause. What _did_ he have to lose? But no, he was only allowing himself to be swayed by this idiot’s pathetic attempts to escape another beating. And all of sudden—even though it wasn’t relevant in the slightest—Hibari realized that he hadn’t felt bored since he’d walked into the reception room and found Yamamoto Takeshi there, waiting for him.

Apparently sensing weakness, Yamamoto reached up, wrapping his fingers around the end of Hibari’s tie to give it a little encouraging tug.

“C’mon... I promise I’ll make it worth your while...”

“Shut up.”

Another tug on his tie set Hibari slightly off balance—he lurched downwards, Yamamoto arched upwards, and somewhere in the middle their mouths met. Yamamoto’s eyes were closed, his mouth hot and hungry and sweet; he nipped Hibari’s lower lip, and settled hands in the small of Hibari’s back. That wouldn’t do at all, so Hibari immediately seized them and pinned Yamamoto to the desk by his wrists.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Stingy,” Yamamoto grumbled, but relented, and when Hibari let go he left his arms lying stiffly by his sides. For his part, Hibari placed one hand on either side of Yamamoto’s head, next to his ears, and pressed him forcefully back into the desk. Unlike Yamamoto, he had no experience he could claim, but insomuch as Yamamoto could teach him, he was a fast learner. The onslaught of sensation was almost overwhelming—the deft movement of lips and tongue and even teeth; the heat of Yamamoto’s body under his, the insistent press of Yamamoto’s erection against his thigh, and the shameful stirring of his own against the hard jut of Yamamoto’s hip—all coherent thought melted away, subsumed by desires so primal that Hibari could not put names to them.

He wanted to touch Yamamoto, to fight him, to rend something to pieces; he wanted to taste blood and breathe smoke. His pulse roared in his ears and Yamamoto made soft, needy sounds into his mouth, and when he realized he could swallow and silence every single one, he was satisfied beyond measure.

When he finally came up for breath, he only pulled back just far enough that their noses still brushed. This close, he could see every detail of Yamamoto’s eyes: the chocolate-brown irises, pupils dark and dilated and strange.

Strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Hibari pondered that, turning the thought over in his mind with care. He’d even forgotten—at least, for that brief period of time when Yamamoto’s mouth had been open under his—that he’d wanted to kill him.

But it was too much, too close, after all. He began to draw back, but Yamamoto stopped him with fingers on the back of his neck.

“Let’s do that again,” he said softly, against Hibari’s mouth.

Hibari stared down at him, considering.

“No,” he decided, and was both pleased and annoyed to see the way Yamamoto's face fell. And then a third feeling emerged, far more troubling than the other two—a sense of loss, of missing purpose, of sheer and utter confusion. What was he even doing? What was it they had just done? And, worst of all... had he actually _enjoyed_ it?

He released Yamamoto's collar abruptly, allowing him to topple back onto the desk. Under normal circumstances, the _thunk_ of Yamamoto's head hitting solid wood might have pleased him, but in his current state Hibari barely even noticed.

“Ow! Hey, wait—Hibari!”

It was not fleeing, he told himself, as he slammed the door shut behind him, making it shudder in its frame. It was... the precursor to a strategic regrouping, just one foray in a protracted battle.

Besides, this was only natural. He was Hibari Kyouya, and he did not crowd with others. In fact, now that he was beginning to understand Yamamoto Takeshi’s methods, he could devise ways of getting around them. That this would be a diverting activity barely crossed his mind; just the fact of having something to do was enough. He stalked away, leaving the reception room behind him, and vowed not to return for the rest of the week.

*

It was nearly three days before Yamamoto Takeshi located him, in his new sanctuary on the school roof. This didn’t come much as a surprise; Yamamoto didn’t bother trying to hide himself, or even closing the door quietly, and so Hibari became aware of him the moment he set foot on the roof.

His tonfa whizzed through the space where that annoying grin had been just a moment before and, in a move that was sickeningly familiar, Yamamoto backstepped, then twisted to seize Hibari by the elbow. His grin ticked a little wider.

“So you were hiding up here, huh? I shoulda known.”

This didn’t merit a response, so Hibari didn’t offer one. He shook Yamamoto’s hand off and whirled away, stalking back towards the spread of his gakuran jacket on the ground, where he’d been resting under the sun until this sorry interruption. There was a chuckle from behind him.

“Sorry, Hibari. I didn’t bring Shigure Kintoki today, so I don’t think you’d enjoy fighting me as much. Maybe next time, huh?” He paused. “Though I guess we probably shouldn’t fight at school, anyway. You’ll just break stuff and then blame me for it.”

“Be quiet,” Hibari snapped. There was a buzzing in his ears, as of a bug nearby, but when he shook his head in frustration it didn’t go away. The curl of Yamamoto’s fingers on his arm had brought with it a shock of memories, so terrifying in their intensity that he could scarcely believe they were real.

Without thinking, he brought fingers to his lips, touching the place where Yamamoto Takeshi had bitten him previously. The teeth marks had long since faded, but—he realized, with a faint dawning horror at how the idea did not repulse him—if he had bitten harder, perhaps even drawn blood, the scar would still remain...

Yamamoto, perhaps sensing his moment, took a step towards him. Hibari whirled, teeth bared and eyes wild, and Yamamoto quickly put both his hands up in an _easy now_ gesture that did little to quell Hibari’s anger.

“Say, Hibari...”

“ _Don’t_.”

“I know I didn’t bring a weapon, but in the meantime... there’s other things we can do together, y’know?”

This time, Hibari had a pretty good idea of just what sorts of things Yamamoto meant, and did not ask. Instead he snarled, wordless for how all sense had fled him, and flew at Yamamoto with tonfas at the ready. The smile was wiped from Yamamoto’s face, and in its place surfaced a hardened expression, intent with the focus he needed to avoid a trip to the hospital— _yes_ , that one, that particular look Hibari would never admit he enjoyed—eyes narrowed and gone dark, leaving no trace of the herbivore he pretended to be.

Hibari did not realize that he himself was smiling, or at least that his lips were pulled back in a facsimile of one. He gave himself over to the frenzy of blows, growing sloppier by the moment, and it wasn’t long before he left an opening. Yamamoto dodged what would have been a clean blow to the gut, and Hibari wasn’t focused enough by half to avoid being left off-balance. He careened forward, and Yamamoto seized him by the shoulders to slam him into the nearby wall, hard enough to wind.

There was a beat—a long still moment in which he studied Hibari’s face, gaze roaming ceaselessly over skin—and Hibari thought that he would open his mouth to speak, to bleat more useless sheep words or even to laugh. But no; Yamamoto himself was too far gone. Instead of using his words, he simply crushed their mouths together, and this time when he bit at Hibari’s mouth, it was hard enough to draw blood.

Hibari arched into him, fingers going loose with surprise. The tonfas fell to the ground with a _clunk_ , but neither of them paid any attention. Nothing remained but the blazing heat where their bodies met, the tart taste of metal on his tongue, and the way that Yamamoto’s hips rode up against him, each slow grind working to drive him insane. Yamamoto was making those sounds again, wordless noises into his mouth, and Hibari found himself drinking them in hungrily, drawing them into himself as though those parts of Yamamoto would become his by proxy.

He was worked up enough from the fight that it didn’t take long; overcome with pleasure, he quickly lost control, and through it all Yamamoto held him steady, kissing and biting at his mouth over and over again as though it might bring him some measure of comfort.

When at long last, the waves of manic pleasure had receded and his senses had begun to return, he opened his eyes to discover that they were strangely wet. Through layers of disorientation he noticed a stinging in his palms, and brought them slowly up to his eyes. He had been clenching his hands into fists so tight that his fingernails had broken the skin.

Yamamoto followed his gaze, eyes narrowing when he saw what had happened to Hibari's hands. He tipped his head to nuzzle his cheek into one sticky palm, then just before Hibari could pull away in disgust he turned, lips parting, laving his tongue against the small half-moon indentations in skin where blood was beginning to bead.

A soft hiss of breath escaped between Hibari’s teeth. He wanted... he wanted... he couldn’t even explain it. He wanted without words, without knowing what he wanted or even understanding it, but he wanted all the same.

His fingers twitched, then moved—not to pull away, but rather threading themselves through Yamamoto Takeshi’s short, damp hair to knead at his scalp. He did not twist nor pull, cruelly; just left his hand there, gathering warmth, in what could have been, in some lights, described as a caress.

The look that Yamamoto gave him then—as he leaned into Hibari's hand, allowing himself to be held—was dark, heavy with satisfaction. When he spoke, it was with a voice roughened by exertion.

“I’ll bring Shigure Kintoki next time. So we can have a proper fight first.” Yamamoto shut his eyes, nostrils flaring as he inhaled, harshly, and then opened them again. His gaze bore into Hibari’s own, never wavering for a moment. “If... you’ll have me, that is.”

Hibari’s fingers twitched again, and then tightened slightly in Yamamoto’s hair, but did not withdraw. Absently, he sucked a bead of blood from his torn lower lip.

“Yes,” he said—in barely more than a breath, but all that was needed. The corners of Yamamoto’s lips curled upwards, and he chuckled against Hibari’s palm.

“Still bored?” he teased. But when Hibari’s hand slid down to cup his jaw, fingertips digging almost threateningly into his cheek, it wiped the smile from his face. His throat moved, nerves and anticipation blending together as Hibari leaned into him. “Hibari—what...”

Hibari didn’t bother to reply. After all, now he knew how to shut Yamamoto up for good.

**Author's Note:**

> :'D comments and kudos always appreciated!
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/andreaphobia)!


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